


Better the Devil You Know

by HearMeMeow (TightTights)



Category: Batman: The Telltale Series (Video Game)
Genre: BatCat, Cowgirl Position, Cunnilingus, Enemy Within Spoilers, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Game Spoilers, Not a One shot anymore, Obligatory smut fic after THAT scene, Oral Sex, Sad Bruce, five shot, spoilers galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2018-08-28 12:59:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8446780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TightTights/pseuds/HearMeMeow
Summary: The fic that had to be done.  If you know what I'm talking about, you know you have to read it.NEW CHAPS!  1-2 based on the first season.3-5 based on S2/The Enemy Within.Spoilers abound.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a multi-shot based on the decision to romance Selina in Telltale's Batman. Fic also presumes that you have made certain decisions that persuade her to like and trust Bruce. Spoilery!
> 
> Chapters 3-5 pick up before and after The Enemy Within.
> 
> Porn guide: Chapters 1 and 5.

He’s tossing her onto her bed, giving her only a second to settle before he’s covering her totally with his mouth and body. His skin burns to the touch, and she feels it not just on his lips, but through her gloves as she runs her hands over his back. She soon snaps them off, and her fingers journey over the rugged landscape of his physique. Neither speak, as their need for touch overrides all rational thought.

He leaves her lips, and begins to descend. Her breath hitches.

To think that she was getting tired with her line of work. Tired of just surviving. Tired of being stressed and alone. Tired in general, really, and yearning for any shred of novelty, some big break that would end the tedium of her existence. _It never amounts to anything_ , she said.

Yet here was something - rather, someone - whose bare acceptance rebutted her well-fed cynicism. His heartfelt reassurance drew her in closer to him, and he signed his name with a gentle peck on her head. He was _so_ adorable.

Above all, in that moment, she was tired of skirting around what she wanted in that moment. Him.

Now, with not just a dashing billionaire between her legs, but the fabled Bat, she could confidently say that her life was anything but tedious anymore. Fate always did have a strange sense of humor.

She had relished the thrill the moment he caught her in Mayor Hill’s office. She fought the heady buzz that ensued, as though it were her first heist. She must have been the only thief in Gotham who actually _wanted_ to get busted by the Bat.

Before that job, she had only vaguely heard of this half man, half shadow. Rather, she had heard the colorful descriptions of him from her fences and black market associates. Either they were infuriated by his meddling in their business, or too terrified to even describe him-- lest they summon him like a black-winged devil.

Their boot-quaking superstitions amused her, but they also piqued her curiosity. No matter what spells and tricks he relied on, he was still a man. A man who sounded like a wide-eyed fool at best. Crazy, possibly, and far too sure of himself, as most vigilantes were. He hardly deserved even a slow clap for the amateur thieves and scoundrels whose souls he had plucked off the streets, who had little skill and even less confidence.

She wondered, just how would the demon fare against an actual, seasoned professional? Aside from the handsome pay, it was one of the reasons she agreed to break into city hall. She needed to raise her profile, and it worked like a charm. Hill’s safe became her summoning circle, the data drive her fetish. Once conjured, she relished the thought of meeting the devil, then banishing him back to the underworld.

Yet as they traded blows, she detected not a trace of arrogance, nor a mote of self-interest. Only quiet determination and unwavering discipline in his words and his technique. Not what she imagined as a vengeful spirit. Yet the black eye, empty hands, and begrudging defeat he gave her was nothing less than stunning, and she no longer wondered if he lived up to the rumors.

As she dabbed disinfectant on her wounds later that night, she winced and scowled. She replayed events in her head, convinced that she made no mistakes-- yet the Bat still managed to wrest the data drive from her grasp. She dreaded the consequences of her failure, the least of which came from Harvey.

Now there was a devil, only slightly less imposing and far more charming. Thankfully, the then-district attorney kept his questions to himself, even when he noticed her bruised eye. He never wanted to know the full truth. He was either too afraid, or too ambitious to go near it.

However, there was an unexpected benefit of hanging from Harvey’s arm. Through him, she met the Bat’s human visage. The odds were staggering in hindsight, and her lingering indignation was ill-prepared for the truth of a billionaire playboy playing dress-up to thwart crime. Now this was the kind of novelty in her life she was looking for.

He recognized her, too. She was only happy to reassure him of her promise to secrecy. There was no way she was going to spoil this delicious mystery so soon.

Then there was the dive bar. Even in casual clothes, he stuck out like a sore, well-groomed thumb of privilege. She might have been embarrassed if she was not so charmed by his genuine concern for her safety. It was adorable then, too. The whole schtick. Yet somehow, for some reason, she trusted him, even though he shared some blame for the mark on her head in the first place.

She wasn’t sure if her confusing feelings came before or after their violent and bloody dance with her former employer’s goons. What she was sure of, however, was that with the amount of adrenaline coursing through her, it was very easy to mistake the side effects for sexual arousal. That’s why she stopped him when he offered a goodbye kiss in the alleyway.

No. It wasn’t him she stopped.

She hears him hiss and recoil briefly when she forgets herself and pinches his bandaged shoulder.

“Sorry,” she breathes, but he’s not listening. He’s wasting no time peeling off her belt and pulling down the zipper of her catsuit, kissing each inch of newly-exposed skin. She pushes the fabric off of her shoulders and slips her arms out, but before she can remove her bra, he’s traveled back to her lips and stealing away her breath.

She never wanted someone to touch her so badly. She never trembled as much when he snaked his hands beneath the underwire and over her breasts. He swallowed her moan as she undid the clasp of her bra, allowing him to gently knead her, then flick his thumbs over her nipples. She pushes him off, gasping, unable to stand how her body reacted from such a mere touch.

There’s pure lust in his eyes, but also something else. Something devilish. He smiles, and after removing the offending garment, he’s leaning forward to capture a dark nipple in his mouth.

She sighs as her mind goes blank, and she rakes her fingers over his unbandaged back and shoulder. She gropes for her sanity after he tastes and sucks one nipple, then the other, with a patience and deliberation that makes her realize this isn’t just a roll in the hay for either of them. He wants to make love to her. The feeling is mutual.

Her breath quickens further when he makes movements towards that end, tugging the catsuit further off of her waist, releasing her nipple in order to descend once more. Heady with anticipation, she helps him peel off her boots, then the rest of the suit off of her until she is bare-- save for the matching pair of panties to her bra.

He takes her by the thighs and pulls her until she’s at the edge of the bed, and he kneels between them as though in worship, prostrating until his nose touches the thin barrier of cloth. He nuzzles, kisses, and inhales her. He has not even begun, and she is close to exploding.

This was the preternatural creature she was supposed to be afraid of. The same who saved her life not once, but twice, choosing to preserve her over Harvey.

She squeezes the bed cover when he hooks a finger under the elastic band and teases off the last obstacle between them. She, however, smiles when his next move is to roughly tug loose the material around his waist, clearly impatient with the confines of his own suit. Once he frees his cock, he leans in once again to take in her scent.

“Bruce,” slips out of her as she throws her head back and gazes to the ceiling. The pleasure rocks her as she feels his tongue graze the nub of her clit, and she can hardly find the air in her lungs to signal her delight. He teases her in circles. Then, side-to-side, and instantly she finds a lungful, letting out a wanton moan that shocks her in its sudden intensity.

But he doesn’t miss a beat. He continues licking, sucking, gorging on her tender flesh. She guides him with her voice and a hand in his hair, and as pulses and jolts of pleasure build up within her, she doesn’t just feel sexy. She feels beautiful. She glances down at him across her breasts and belly, and she knows he senses her gaze when his eyes flash up to meet hers. He pauses.

“Good?” he asks.

“Not bad so far,” she says with a wry smile, knowing it was a massive understatement.

“Is that right?” he says, eyebrow quirked. “I’ll just have to try again.”

“Be my-,” she starts, but her voice cracks when his mouth falls on her clit again, massaging her more vigorously with his tongue. He recruits his hand, aiding the building pressure at her center with his fingertips. It’s unreal. Its indescribable. Not just the technique, but the man.

She tries to squirm away from his tongue, but he’s locked her in place with arms curled around her thighs. There’s no escape. She writhes, and her grip in his hair tightens when her climax becomes inevitable. She’s not sure what she moans over and over, probably his name and a prayer to God, when the spasms roll through her, wiping away every thought and suspending her in a haze of euphoria.

She loves it. Loves life, loves living it. Once the haze recedes, she props herself up, then throws her shaky arms around Bruce, crushing her lips to him, tasting of the mild tang still soaked on his lips.

He cups her cheek when they part, both panting. “Good?” he asks again.

Her lip quivers. She can scarcely reply. “Good,” she manages. He curls an errant strand of hair behind her ear, then kisses her again, gently and - dare she believe it - with love.

Then he parts from her to remove his boots, then stands to peel away the rest of his suit. She stands up from the bed, unable to resist tasting the skin at the nape of his neck while teasing her fingers around his gorgeous erection. She chuckles when he grunts and stoops, teetering as he frantically worries off the last leg of his outfit.

“Think this is funny?” he says, running his hands over her sides and hips when he straightens, towering over her.

“Yeah. But it is kinda hot to see you a little _off-balance_ ,” she says, grasping his cock and stroking it idly. He doesn’t reply, sighing instead, his eyes falling shut as a wave of pleasure passes over him. Then, he suddenly grabs her under her arms and tosses her once again onto the mattress, and follows by wedging himself between her legs. She’s surprised, delighted, and delirious over the shaft of his cock gliding over her entrance.

But he’s not going to take her like this. She pushes his shoulders until he gets the hint, rolling onto his back. For the first time, she sees him grin. Not a half-assed one, but a full, toothy grin as she straddles him. It stops her heart, along with the rest of her movement.

“What?” he says, running one hand over her buttock and putting the other behind his head. “This is your show, Ms. Kyle.”

The prompt rattles her from her stupor, and her attention snaps back to the moment. She runs her tongue over her black lips, then gingerly takes his cock back into her hands. When she runs her palm over the underside and over the head, he rolls his head to the side, eyes lidded. She keeps him in suspense, reveling in the sweet torture she’s inflicting, until she sees his eyes travel up from her hands at his dick, up across her torso, until they lock with hers.

Her composure crumbles, and in a swift motion she releases him to tear away her hairband, letting her hair spill out around her face. Just as swiftly he is sitting up, kissing her hard as she shifts higher onto her knees, and aims his cock nearer to her entrance.

“Are you-,” he whispers, but she places a finger to his lips.

“Such a nobleman. It’s the twenty-first century, my dear knight. Nothing to worry about.”

He kisses her in assent, then falls back onto his elbows. Her breath quickens. She’s done this before. Many times before. But her body is trembling, giddy, and virginal all over again as she places the tip of him at her entrance. He gasps, but his eyes never leave hers as she sinks onto him.

“Oh, shit,” he exhales, clutching at her hips. _Oh, shit_ is exactly correct. So, so correct. He fits her completely, connects with her beautifully. The exhilaration runs along her spine, down to her toes, then back up to the crown of her head, electrifying every cubic inch of her flesh.

“Bruce,” she almost sings, rolling her head back. He steadies her as she raises herself, then falls on him, then again. Steam builds, and once in a smooth rhythm, he laces his fingers in hers. His cock strokes every available inch inside her, and, after shifting the angle, she groans out her appreciation. She loves it. Loves him, and the pain of it twists in her core, even as every thrust sends her higher toward heaven above.

Her eyes snap back to him when she feels the pressure of his thumb against her clit, and she hates the smile she sees. The knowing expression. That he’s got her. Again. She hates that her body responds so readily, that she’s spinning so far out of control. That - deep down - she wants to be got.

She slows, letting him massage her, and coax another climax from her. Her soft moans are broken and ragged when she crests.

“Selina,” he says, low. He grips her hips and begins driving himself in, fucking her as if he’s waited his entire life for this night. Maybe he has, just like her. Soon he’s bucking, flowing inside her like smelt iron, while she sublimates, only vaguely aware of her surroundings and the passage of time.

She solidifies when her sits up and wraps his arms around her, pressing his lips to her collarbone. His warm breath tickles her chest and neck. He’s sweaty, spent, peaceful. She pats down a ridge of his mussed hair.

“Alright, Bats,” she says. He hesitates, then begrudgingly loosens his embrace. She extracts herself to make her way to the restroom. She cleans herself up, then plucks a hand towel off of a rack. She brings it to her nose. Clean. Well, clean-ish.

When she returns to the bedroom, she rummages through her dresser drawer, extracting a tank and fresh panties. After dressing, she glances over to Bruce. He’s still reclined on the bed, distracted by his thoughts until she clears her throat.

“Afraid I don’t have much that’ll fit you,” she says. She swallows hard when she picks out a blue pair of boxers. Holding it up, she adds, “Unless you don’t mind wearing one of Harvey’s. Don’t worry, it’s washed.”

He looks grim for a moment, then says, “Guess it’ll have to do.”

She tosses him the boxers, then hand towel. He wipes, then slips into them quickly, as if the less he thought about them the better. He holds out his right arm for her, and she rejoins him on the bed, pressing herself in close.

Despite dancing a finger across his broad chest, he still looks severe. “You’re not regretting this, are you?” she ventures.

“No,” he declares, turning to her. His expression softens. “Never.”

And there it is. “Me neither.” Still, she suffers the same pangs of dread. Running the finger along his bandages, she says, “We’re in a lot of trouble though, aren’t we, Bats?”

“I can talk to him if you want,” he offers, because of course he does.

Precious as it is, she replies, “No. I should be the one to break it to him. He’ll take it much better from me. I’ve been a real shitty girlfriend, anyway.”

“Alright,” is his response. His lips touch against her temple, and they linger there. His measured breathing calms her anxiety, until she forgets all about Harvey. Like she had never heard of him.

Minutes later, her eyes droop. She knows she’s drifting away fast, even as he extracts his arm from under her. She hears the soft snap of a blanket, then feels it fall gently around her waist, followed by the reassuring weight of his arm. There’s a press of his lips against her forehead, a last kiss goodnight.

She smiles. Better the devil you know.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Episode 5 spoilers ahead**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> This is just a brief epilogue/addendum based on events post-episode 5 from Bruce's heartbroken perspective. I started it help with the (read: my) digestion, and figured I go ahead and share it. Warning: it's a bummer.

She's not a good person. A thief. Trickster. Deserter.

_If that's your idea of love, then I feel sorry for you._

He hurts, and he knows it showed all over his face when she turned away from him in disgust.

_You really are just like everyone else. I can’t wait to get out of this place._

He pushed the sound of her voice out of his mind before the hum of her motorbike receded. There was no time to dwell on regret. But it waited.

It waited until Victoria Arkham met her fate within the crumbling catacombs below Arkham Asylum. It waited until Alfred returned home with a clean bill of health, though still rattled by his ordeal. It waited until after his press statement as to the future of Gotham and the Wayne legacy. It waited for the noise and panic over his subsequent brush with death to subside.

Now, as he reclines in the still parlor of Wayne Manor, it strikes. It bears down as suddenly and as relentlessly as the oncoming van, aimed for his life. He cannot step out of the way. Loneliness, he thinks. He never noticed it before. Or it never bothered him. Not until that first bewitching moment when he first met her at City Hall.

The spell over him strengthened when he met the woman underneath the disguise-- and she met him. ‘Met’ was not the precise word; she bypassed him, and with such ease, and even though she appeared human, she might as well have been a conjuration, an animate medley of wits, allure, and void, bound together by preternatural energy.

Now, he better understood the phenomenon as a curse. A delicate one, that if forced, would rebound on him. And her? The shock might unravel her, scattering her components out like a tumbling china closet.

He still suffered from the backfire of his misguided plea for her to remain. He still struggled to say her name out loud. He’d get better at it. Once the residue of his mistake wore off, he might even bring himself to purge the remaining traces from his phone.

But what was the point? The hex on his waking memory lingered. The feel of her, the smell of her, the challenge of her. He may not know her, but he knows the way she moves. The self-discipline. That eye for opportunity. The hard lines. They do not come easy.

Neither does the self-loathing. He reaches up and rubs the hole bored in his ear between his fingers.

“Pardon me, sir.”

He looks up from his chair. Alfred’s furrowed countenance prompts him notice his clenched jaw. He relaxes, and assures Alfred with a brief smile.

“You must still be reeling,” Alfred says, setting down a tray of tea. “That attempt on your life was appalling to witness.”

“The first-hand perspective wasn’t much better,” he says, taking the saucer and lifting a cup to his lips.

“I imagine not. Who could possibly-?” Alfred huffs. “Seems we’ll have not but a moment to rest.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“‘Don’t worry,’ he says. Worrying is what I do best, Master Bruce. Other than tea.”

Suddenly, he cannot bring himself to look at Alfred. His eyes fall to the half-empty cup in his lap.

Alfred notices. “Pardon my presumption, but I can’t help but wonder if that’s all that has been weighing on your mind lately.”

His confidence recedes, along with any trace of levity in his features. “I’m alright, Alfred.”

Alfred regards him, then clears his throat. “I do regret that things didn’t work out between you and Ms. Kyle. Heaven knows you’re overdue for some companionship. Someone who accepts you. All of you.”

“She doesn’t. There’s nothing more between us.”

“Well, I’ve never heard you sound so pleased when you spoke of her. Of anyone.”

“We should know by now how quickly circumstances can change.”

Alfred sighs as he collects the empty tray. “A pity.”

A pity, indeed. As an eligible, infinitely wealthy bachelor, casual girlfriends and flings were unavoidable-- but none knew him. None cared to. They willfully turned their eyes from the darkness, forcing their affections in a predictable bid for his. He bored and disappointed them just as much, he knew.

_I feel sorry for you._

The familiar sound rings through his ears as he retires to bed. History may not repeat, but it can rhyme.

He has only the energy to remove his his dress shirt and slacks before slipping beneath the cool, soft sheets. Blue moonlight filters through vaulted windows, and shadows of dust particles dance over the myriad pillows. It soothes him.

Then, his heart leaps. He sees her lying across from him. She’s half prone, her features reposed in slumber. He fixates on her, listening for her light snoring, and is suddenly reminded of the scent of her shampoo. He reaches out. His fingers glance over a lock of hair behind her ear. When she awakens, and she sees him. All of him. He never felt so exposed.

He sometimes thought about how he might explain himself to an imaginary sweetheart, tucking away a lengthy treatise on the matter of Gotham’s protector and vengeance. A waste of memory, it turned out. There was no explanation if it could not be readily understood.

He leans in and kisses her. Gentle, chaste. Then ravenous. She’s just as hungry-- just as he sensed when they made love before. They each relish in the taste, but the formalities are over. The shoddy disguise of pretense has served out its purpose.

A half-turn, and their civilized halves sink below the surface. At her invitation, he rises over her, snorting against her back when he sinks into her. He sets them into rhythm, inciting a primitive form of communication between them. His utterances form in the back of his throat, surging from the deepest parts of his core. One of his hands loosens from her hips to run underneath and between her. He listens for her mewls to intensify into feral groans. He no longer smells her shampoo. He smells her. He smells them.

_Is this your idea of love?_

He jolts awake, still resting on his side. The dark, empty, chilly bed greets him, as though her image left him not seconds, but decades ago. The only thing that persists - and grounds him - is a sodden erection. After running a hand over his face, he rolls out of bed.

By the time his nerves settle, he is in the grand bath, soaking himself up to his chin in its expansive pool. All degree of arousal percolates out from his skin, and the sharp cold condenses his thoughts. He does not meditate for long, however-- if he meditated at all. He can't remember.

 _His idea?_ He has none. If that agonized him more than having lost, he could not tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it wasn't a positive ending for BatCat if you said you loved her, but I'm growing to appreciate it as my 'canon'.
> 
> I love and appreciate all the feedback very much. Happy holidays.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I uh...FINALLY got around to playing The Enemy Within, aaaand now this is coming out. Sorry for the wait! My confidence in my writing hasn't been so great, lately, but dammit if Telltale games don't inspire me to try. None of this is beta'd or anything, but I hope y'all enjoy.

Almost a year later, and she's out of places to go between here and back. Back to Gotham. Right back to the beginning.

It’s a small town bar, but it will have to do until she can muster enough intestinal fortitude to make the last leg. This is the last stop, the last chance to turn around. As her orbit decays with every mile marker, she can only see these holes-in-the-wall as poor imitations of The Stacked Deck.

She takes a stool. "Whiskey," she orders tersely when the barkeep nods to her.

"Preference?"

"Whatever's cheapest."

"Single or double?"

She sighs. "Single."

It is the middle of the afternoon, she concedes, but her voice sounds too loud to her ears. The place is too quiet, too empty.

Moments later, the barkeep presents her with a glass of amber liquid. He leans back and gives her a once over, more curious than leering. "Eight," he says.

She curls her nose. He waits as though expecting her to balk at the charge. A year ago she would have, persuading him to rethink the out-of-towner treatment, and picked his pocket for good measure. Hell, he looks ready for her to talk him down a buck or two, or to pour her that double at no extra charge.

But sometime, somewhere along this meandering year on the road, a fire had gone out.

The fight in her dies as swiftly as it had arisen, and she wordlessly hands over a wad of bills, having decided that his swift departure was preferable to an argument. He takes the cash, and his leave.

A lone ceiling fan does little to move the stagnant, smoky air, and the warped twang of a banjo eddies out of blown speakers mounted in the corners of the bar. The lighting is low, monochromatic, hazy.

She sips the drink, schooling back a wince as its rough taste coats the back of her throat. Yes. This is what irony ought to taste like. Just like cheap whiskey. It was usually the best she was willing to shell out for in Gotham after a tough job. And much like Gotham, the familiar comfort of the ritual somehow nauseates her at the same time.

She should be sleeping, but she needs to work up the nerve to cover the last few dozen more miles until she crosses into Gotham city limits.

Two years ago, it had felt so good to be finally getting out of Gotham, from her spartan apartment, from just scraping by. To have some clean air in her lungs for a change. She didn't stop riding until she made it to the other side of the country, until she could smell the ocean on the opposite coast, until the howl of her conscience faded to silence enough for her to close a strange chapter in her life.

Most exhilarating of all was knowing he was thousands of miles behind her. Bruce, and his certifiably insane dedication to that black hole of misery.

He confessed he loved her. She expected so much better from him. The naive way his wounded eyes begged her to stay, to not crush the heart he poured into her hands, made her skin crawl. For someone so brilliant with his gadgets, his fists, and his tongue, it was stunning and disappointing to see him become so unbelievably stupid about guarding his own feelings.

"Miss?"

She jerks, looking up to the blank expression of the barkeep. She loosens her crushing grip around her glass. Embarrassment floods her when she feels the warm tracks of moisture over her cheeks. She wipes them away with the pads of her fingers, but has nothing to say to him. The barkeep huffs with a shrug of his shoulders, and mercifully leaves her alone.

She leans over the wooden countertop riddled with splits and craters. Two middle-aged men make lazy circles around one of the bar's two pool tables, cracking the cue ball across the faded green. The table sport scuffs and dings that bear witness to its own unique catalog of disagreements that have played out over the years.

Her brain wastes no time recalling her own catalog of bar fights, most prominently the one alongside him. Damn, that had been a thrill, and one among many fond memories embedded in her like thorns.

She takes the last pull off her drink, setting down the empty glass for the barkeep to pick up. Bruce underestimated her. Perhaps she overestimated herself. She thought she was too smart to circle the drain along with him, but there's no amount of momentum that can free her completely from Gotham's pull. Did Bruce know that? Harvey looked at her the same way before the event horizon of his psychosis consumed him, and perhaps that scared her. For herself, or for Bruce, she couldn't distinguish.

Regardless, she could confidently cement 'attractive to unstable people' under her list of talents.

"Hey, pretty lady."

The gruff voice of the barkeep once again snaps her back to the present. Another single pour appears in front of her.

“But I didn’t-,” she starts.

“On the house,” he says.

She shakes her head, pushing the drink back. “I can pay for it,” she says, reaching into her pocket for her wallet.

“On. The. House,” the barkeep repeats, running a cleaning rag over a glass. “What’s your name?”

She repockets her wallet, reflexively thinking of a fake name to give him. Laura. Michelle. When glances down to the fresh glass of whiskey, however, she says, “Selina.”

He nods. He dries off another fresh glass before he asks, “Guy trouble?”

“Something like that.” She picks up the whiskey, and with experienced caution and reflexive instinct, she swirls the amber liquid. Seeing nothing strange, she then sniffs its potent fumes for anything odd. Detecting nothing but normal, honest-to-god booze, she brings it to her lips. “Look that pathetic, do I?” she says into the glass.

“Bartender instincts.”

“Well, thanks.” She takes a tiny sip, rolling it over her tongue before swallowing it down. Tastes normal.

“Where you headed?”

“Gotham.”

He scoffs under his breath. “Brave lady. After the shit that went down last year, Bruce Wayne himself could bequeath me all of his holdings and I still wouldn’t go near that place.”

“I can hold my own.”

Her pocket vibrates. She reaches in and extracts her phone. Her smile drops, and all other thoughts stop in their tracks when she reads a peculiar notification.

_Message from UNKNOWN._

_I speak in riddles, carry a cane, and have a soft spot for wayward creatures. Who am I?_

Her breath catches. A face, hooded and masked in green leaps to her mind, surging up from the depths of her memory like a spike.

“That him?” the barkeep asks.

“God, no,” she says, her lungs tight. She finds her wallet again, rips a twenty from it and tosses the bill next to her unfinished drink.

“Hey, wait-!”

She’s already out the door, fumbling for her keys. Her phone buzzes. Cursing, she yanks it fully out of her pocket.

_Time's ticking, kitten. I know you're there._

Her fingers dance across the keypad. _Riddler._

Suddenly, her phone spasms with an incoming call from _UNKNOWN_ , and she very nearly drops the device onto the dusty concrete. After a measured breath, she answers, pressing the phone to her ear where she hears, "Very good! My dearest Selina, how's life been treating you these days?"

Her voice is steady enough when she says, "No complaints." Finding her keys, she jogs toward her bike.

"Really? I'm so glad to hear that. Especially ever since I heard from a little birdie that you had absconded from Gotham-- but were empty-handed. I was shocked by the news, given your talents."

She exhales, hesitating. "Not exactly, Eddie. I had..." She stops as she throws her leg over her bike seat, choosing her next words.

"Hello? Cat got your tongue?"

She slouches, shifting her weight onto one leg as she straddles the stool. "I did the job, didn't I? I proved the key exists. I proved I could do this."

"So you did."

She almost heaves a sigh of relief, but it catches in her throat when he growls in her ear.

"But you know I don't give partial credit. I expected you to actually deliver it, instead of leaving me to...improvise. And over what? How could the likes of _Bruce Wayne_ persuade you to just give it back?"

"I'll make it up to you, I swear," Selina says. She jams in the key and turns the ignition over.

The unnerving pause sounds even louder than the bike's engine. Instinctively, she glances around her, her senses running high. Finally, a long sigh comes through the phone.

He says, "I suppose I was young once, too. Fortunately, when you get to be my age, you'll see setback merely as course correction, and defeat as insight into unexplored opportunity. Had you delivered the key, I might not have brought yet another wayward creature into our fold. And for you, there is still a chance to repay your debts."

She straightens. "Name it."

"Return to Gotham, ASAP. Come meet the Pact. Our little gang of strays won't be complete without my most clever one of all."

"I thought that one was you, Eddie."

He chuckles. "You'd be right, except that I am not astray. I am going to lead us to greener pastures, once we take care of some loose ends."

"Always so cryptic."

"I just like to keep the world guessing. You didn't answer my question."

"Huh?"

"Bruce Wayne."

She hesitates, and she's not sure it's the subject that embarrasses her more than for letting that tell slip by. She’s sure Riddler noticed her discomfort.

"Let's just say I...met my match," she admits.

Riddler's wry smile is not difficult for her to imagine when he says, "The rich want it, the wise know it, the poor need it, and the kind show it."

She scoffs. "What's that? Sympathy?"

"A very good guess, but I'll be sure to reserve some sympathy for you knowing that _love_ is your curse for keeping me behind bars."

She rolls her eyes. "It wasn't-, she starts. "Bruce Wayne is much more capable than he lets on. If we're going to cause trouble Gotham, you ought to know that he's real cozy with the GCPD, seeing as he's practically bankrolling them." She looks up towards the deep pink clouds over the sunset sky. "And he has the Bat at his beck and call."

"Good to know," he says, and it sounds genuine. "Thank you, my dear. A chat with you always lifts my spirits. I'll send you my new address. Someone of your talents will appreciate what I've done with the place. Don't dally."

The line clicks dead.

She sighs as she slides the phone back in her pocket. She glances over to the bar. The last stop. Her conversation with Riddler sobered her more than she liked.

She throws on her helmet, pivots the bike, and darts back toward the freeway, and lets gravity guide her home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This 3rd chapter takes a little (OK, a LOT) of liberty with the material, particularly with Riddler, and I'm aware that there is no supporting canon for whether Catwoman stole the Phalanx key for him. But what if she had? I wanted to explore the gaps a little.


	4. Chapter 4

It's over. It’s all come to an end. Riddler, the virus, the carnival of mad terror at the hands of Harley and John-- _Joker_. Like some warped, funhouse mirror image of Bruce, Joker appeared as the final stage of John Doe’s slow-motion metamorphosis. She'll never forget the silent, unnatural grin on his face, even as he lay unconscious and cuffed to a stretcher. It spoke a promise that their peace would never last.

Bruce, too, was hauled out in a stretcher, and hanging on by a thread. The paramedics removed his shirt and jacket, and the bandage at his side was already soaked through with blood by the time they brought him to the ambulance.

Her pulse quickened when she saw him. She gripped his limp hand and placed a kiss on his cheek before they loaded him onto the vehicle. She found him cold and clammy, and the urge to lay in one last punch on Harley overwhelmed her. If that hammer-toting psychopath could have went down and stayed down, then maybe she could have done something. Instead, Harley fought her tooth and nail right up until the Agency burst through the carnival tent flaps.

"Are you the wife?" the paramedic asked, stopping her before she could climb into the ambulance with them. She didn't intend to follow them, but her legs had moved without her thinking.

Heat rushed to her cheeks as she backed off. When her brain fully registered the question, a stone dropped in her gut. "No."

"Then I'm sorry, miss," he told her.

Her hand shot out, stopping him from closing the door. "Will he be okay?"

"Stable for now, but he'll have a better chance if you let us go, so if you'll excuse me."

The back of the ambulance slammed shut, and they carted him off into the night.

Medics checked her over as well. She needed more than a few stitches, but they cleared her into the Agency’s custody, who put her up for the night. They debriefed her, then removed her collar, or so she thinks. She he can hardly remember getting to the hotel, what she told them, or if she even slept that night. The waning adrenaline and trauma left her in a daze, she knew, but all of the uncertainty had taken up the rest of the space in her mind.

There are only two things she remembers with picture-perfect clarity from that next morning. An agent came to her door to inform her that one, Bruce Wayne had made it through the night, and was expected to make a full recovery. Secondly, that her past criminal record was hereby expunged, with a memo of guarantee and signature from Director Amanda Waller to prove it.

All she could think was that Bruce had better make a full recovery-- not because she cared, but because she was going to be the one to kill him.

* * *

 

The chill in the night air stings her cheeks as she rides, blazing down the straight path toward Wayne Manor. Bats dive for moths drawn to the lights that dot its eaves and splash up from manicured shrubs. Though awash with outdoor lighting, the manor never comes across as neither warm nor inviting. Purposeful, she knows, but the voids and deep lines of shadow that crisscross the stone facade make it seem like some petrified carcass of a behemoth that perished alone in the countryside.

She rubs her neck, itchy from where the Agency collar left its mark. After jamming her finger into the doorbell, she waits, waving to the security camera embedded in the jamb above it. Tapping her foot, she counts off the seconds. When there's no response, she pounds her fist against the polished wood of the door.

Finally, the door lock clicks, and one of the double doors swings inward. There, Bruce stands to one side, looking sheepish. "Selina."

She both loves and hates these waves of stupid, schoolgirl elation when she looks on the face of a man who treats her as a trusted teammate instead of just another petty criminal. It just adds to her frustration.

"Answering your own door these days?" she asks, crossing her arms and putting on her best scowl.

He mirrors her. “And you’re using the front door for a change.”

“Don’t get used to it. We need to talk.”

"Not tonight, Selina," he says. "Please."

She drops her arms, caught off guard by the ring of utter defeat in his voice. But her ire pauses only for a moment. "What do you mean, 'not tonight'?"

He slumps back from the door, allowing her to follow him inside. When he closes it behind her, he moves to stand before her, close.

"I know why you're here. If you want to take it out on me, then do whatever you want. I won't stop you."

She examines him from head to chin, the fight in her deflating as she notes his sunken eyes and cheeks. "Well, that'd be no fun," she admits. The corner of his lip tugs into a smile, and even that small gesture brings a measure of life back to his features. "Why don't you tell me what happened, then I'll decide whether I'm going to strangle you with your cape," she says.

"If that's your idea of fun," he says with a wink as he leads her to the parlor.

She remembers it from when he put her up on the eve of Harvey’s reign of terror. The fireplace crackles before the wide sofa, and the pool table is set up for a fresh game. She spots the bottle of 50-year single malt with a card on the coffee table, and wonders.

"Where's Alfred?" she asks, glancing around.

He invites her to sit on the sofa first. She lowers herself, and he takes a seat close to her, close enough so that their thighs brush. He, however, leans forward with his elbows propped on his knees, running a hand through his hair.

He says, "Alfred's gone."

"Gone?"

"He left. Quit. Packed all of his things and left for the airport."

"Oh, Bruce."

She places her hand on his back, smoothing her palm along the broad expanse of his shoulders. This is not how she had planned this evening to go. She anticipated coming in hot, throwing a few punches, slinging some heated words, and maybe tossing an expensive vase or two. Instead, it was if all her anger had been wrapped up and dunked into a cold river, and the only claws she had out were her nails brushing gently across the tight muscles of his back.

But the mystery nags at her. She says, "Why? He was like a father to you.”

He turns his face away from her. "Because I wouldn't give up the Bat."

"Those were his terms? Either give up being Batman, or leaving?"

"He was sick. Psychosomatic stuff. Tremors, fainting spells. He said it all stopped the moment he made the decision to leave."

She can't look at him. She shakes her head. "Damn."

"He believes Batman creates the things he means to destroy. That criminals are worse because of him.” He meets her, his gaze piercing. “Do you think that's true?"

"I'm not sure if I-,"

He takes her hand. "Please. I need your perspective."

"You mean the perspective of someone familiar with the other side of the law?"

He shakes his head. "Not just someone's. Yours."

There he goes again. Making her heart wrench, his sincerity touching something buried deep inside of her. She regards him, taking the thoughtful moment to come to an honest answer. An answer he deserves.

"I think Batman is responsible in that he is no exception to the Darwinian trap. When the prey - the people of Gotham - have better defenses, the predators - criminals - are pressured to adapt. The moment you became Batman, you started an arms race."

He contemplates this. "Giving up Batman won't solve that problem."

"No, and I'm not saying that it will. At this point, that horse has left the barn. Gotham needs Batman now. Not just for what he does, but what he represents."

"What's that?"

"Batman can't stop every terrible thing from happening, but he can promise there will be recourse. And that's a lot of what justice is really about, isn't it?"

He smiles, and the glint of life sparks behind his eyes. Suddenly, he turns to her and dips his head. She thinks he means to kiss her, but instead he presses his forehead against her shoulder. Without knowing what else to do, she cradles him.

"Even if you decide to kill me, I'm glad you came by," he says. He inhales sharply, then straightens to look at her with that deep, searching look in his eyes. "If you want to leave, too-,"

"Stop.”

His mouth hangs open, then shuts it as he waits for her to continue. She says, "I'm pissed at what you did."

"I knew you would be."

" _Shut up._ "

His throat bobs, and he nods.

She leans back from him.  "Pulling strings to clear my criminal record? You had no right to alter my whole life like that. You know how I feel about debts, and you saddled me with one I will _never_ be able to repay."

The way he sinks back into the cushions, and how looks at her, you would think she was about to shoot the family dog.

She doesn't relent. "All you did was have me trade one set of chains for another. And don't give me the 'there is no debt' bullshit."

"Is that it? Do you want me to call Waller? Take it all back?" 

She flinches. "What? No."

"Then what?"

"You should know by now that you don't have to perform these grand gestures for me. Be my savior. Especially not for me."

He drops his eyes, having the courtesy to at least appear chastened.

She continues, "I didn't come back to Gotham for a savior."

"You're all I've got, Selina. Please.”

"And you need to let me finish."

She snaps at him, harsher than she intends, but he still can't meet her gaze, avoiding her like a beaten stray. As if she could crush him with a single thought. She leans forward to collect his cheeks, cradling them in her palms, forcing him to look at her. "I came back to Gotham for Riddler. But I also came back for you. Because for once in my life, I found someone who can watch my back."

She drops her hands, but he still keeps his eyes fixed on hers as she covers his hand resting on his knee. "And that's why I'm sorry to hear about Alfred. He is a good man, and you trusted him to watch your back."

"I took him for granted," he sighs.

She curls her fingers around his palm. "I don't take you for granted. Not anymore. That's why you don't have to prove anything me, okay? I’m not very good at - you know, _this._ ” She points between them, hoping he understands. “But I’ll have your back, if you’ll let me."

His gaze softens, but his grip on her hand is firm. "Can I-?" he starts.

"What?"

He surges forward, pressing his lips to hers. He's warm and velvety, full of vigor as he pulls her close. She sighs, relaxing as he sinks into her.

When he pulls off of her, he says, "Sometimes, I can’t believe you’re real."

She smiles, and slings a leg across his lap, pushing him back into the sofa cushions. “How real does this feel?”

A shiver wracks her when his powerful hands grasp her thighs and stroke up to cup her ass. Damn, she missed this. Missed the hard planes of his muscles under her hands, the need for her she can feel through his slacks, the way he looks up at her with something approaching reverence. Her heart aches-- something that used to alarm her, confuse her. The _why_ still confuses her, but she now knows the cure.

He bucks again, kissing her fiercely as he grinds himself against her. Suddenly, his grip on her thighs tightens and he stands, lifting her as if she were weightless. Their lips separate with the motion. He tells her, "I'd make love to you on every surface of this mansion."

A thrill shoots through her as she imagines the possibilities. "Even the cave?"

"Especially the cave. But I need us to start with the bed."

She smiles, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Then take me to bed, Bruce."

He sets her down, taking her hand as he leads her from the parlor. They make it up the spiral steps, and back into the manor’s long, cavernous hallways. The click-clack of their steps echo off the marble floor, where cold blue moonlight washes over them.

Yet with each step, her pulse quickens-- but with nothing like anticipation. She glances up and about, the vaulted ceilings somehow all too crushing, all too suffocating. From somewhere within her, from depths where light doesn’t reach, a stab of panic sinks into her bones, and she tightens her grip on him. She stops abruptly. She doesn’t know why, but she can’t even force herself to take another step.

He looks back. She lets go of his hand.

"Selina?" he questions, turning to her fully.

"Sorry, I just...How do you stand it?"

"Stand what?"

Is it the maddening space? The cold air? The gilded cage of these hallways? She takes a step back, opting only to shrug her shoulders.

"You really want to take this to the Batcave?" he asks.

She snaps to him, the single question short circuiting her anxiety in an instant, all of it rushing out of her with a single exhale. She grins with utter relief.

"Maybe we could-- split the difference?" she suggests. "How big is your mattress?"

He smiles broadly. "We can take one from one the guest rooms."


	5. In the Underworld

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Porn chapter below. Obligatory repeat that one should not look to fanfic as guides for safe sex. Talk to your partners, people.

She's almost relieved that Alfred isn't present to witness just how absurd they must look. Him, heaving an enormous queen mattress against his shoulder, and her, holding an ocean's worth of pillows and bed linens as they descend the long elevator into a dank, bat-infested cave.

The armory is too crowded, and the Batcomputer delicate, so the only remaining option is what she can only describe as Bruce’s trophy room. He tosses the mattress down on the steel plated floor with a huff, while she tosses the pillows and sheets haphazardly across the mattress. It doesn't matter how it looks.

"Can we...?" she starts, glancing over to the row of cursed relics. The sight of it still gives her the creeps, and there are swarms of bats flying around.

Bruce, however, is already collecting up the various items.

"The smiling face of my ex kills the mood most of all," she says.

"Couldn't agree more," he replies as he takes the armful and moves them to the armory.

"Wait."

He stops, looking over to her.

"Except mine."

He cocks his brow, but does as asked, fishing out her broken goggles and kitty postcard and replacing them.

As he retreats to the armory with the rest of the items, she sets upon her tank top, yanking it up and over her head. Next, her heels, then jeans. She shivers when the pads of her feet touch the cold steel plating of the floor.

By the time he dumps the offending items onto the workbench, she's stepping out from her strapless black bra and panties, hanging the former across her goggles, and the latter across the postcard. When she steps back to admire her handiwork, she smiles. Not just for how it looks, but because of the thundering approach of his footsteps behind her.

She sinks back into his chest, into firm hands that fly across the bare skin of her hips and belly, and into the shuddering whisper of her name that rolls over her ear like flames. She turns in his grasp, appreciating his haste in having removed his dress shirt already, so she can finally press her bare skin against his and find some relief for the ache inside her.

Their mouths meet, hard yet lazy, hungry but pulling back to savor. He snakes an arm around the small of her back, holding her close when he breaks the kiss. She follows his eyes over to the phonograph beside them.

"Music?" he asks.

"Sure."

He turns, taking out a few records from a storage slot underneath the device. "Classical, ambient, or jazz?"

"Seems a little anachronistic, don't you think?"

"Maybe, but it's nice to have something a little old-fashioned around here," he says, his expression darkening with every word. "This belonged to Alfred, you know."

She reaches out, placing a hand on his back. "Jazz."

He tosses her a smile, the gloom over him lifting as swiftly as it settled. "Jazz it is."

Once the needle begins to bob along the grooves, he scoops her up in an echo of their first time together, resuming their kiss. He sets her down onto the mattress with a steady control that speaks to his effortless strength as a warrior, undiminished even after having been on death’s door. Whether his vitality is godly or diabolical, she doesn't care when his lips begin to travel from her collar and down to take in a nipple, stiffened by cold air and anticipation.

The soft warmth of his mouth floods over her, and he teases and tortures her with his tongue while squeezing the handful he has of her other breast. His hair musses under her fingers when she grabs his nape with one hand, and sinks her nails into his shoulder with the other. Damn, she missed this.

The warm notes of a saxophone mix with her breathy moans when he switches sides, coaxing out more and more heat from her core with rough strokes of his tongue. It shouldn't take only nipple play to make her this crazy, but she hasn't been able to stop imagining that mouth on her clit ever since their first night in her shitty apartment on that shitty mattress.

She's a simple creature, and wants simple things. "Bruce," she says, coding all the necessary instruction into a single utterance.

He glances up from her breasts with a twinkle in his eye. He reads her beautifully, pausing briefly to tear off his belt and loosen his slacks. Like rolling up his sleeves before getting straight to work.

He parts her thighs with little preamble. She doesn't want preamble. He obliges when his lips close around her throbbing nub, and she fucking moans. She's sure the echo of it disturbed the nest of bats that come roaring past the stalactites overhead.

"Bruce," she says, almost emotional with it as he sucks and draws his tongue across her. Her head lolls to one side, fighting the urge to cant her hips into his nose when he traces the most delicious shapes over her. She relaxes into his sweet torture, sighing with approval.

Suddenly, infuriatingly, he pops off her. "Good?"

The shit-eating way he says it makes her want to take his head off, but the desire for murder dies against the fact he wouldn't be able to finish down there. She hates that this is probably feeding his ego to the point of insufferability, that he should be working harder in order to see her like this, but she can't help that her body responds to him like no one else she has ever been with. She doesn't want to help it.

"You stopped. That's bad," she informs him, dropping her head back. "We've had this stupid conversation before."

"Just don't want to get kicked," he says, dropping his chin. "You're good at that." She can feel his shaky breath caress her, and she shudders.

"Just shut up and make me come, Romeo."

He offers a grunt as his only reply, obeying with a swipe of his tongue, and a touch of his fingers starting along the inside of her thigh, then descending to join the exquisite assault on her sensitive flesh.

She thrashes when his fingers sink past her, curling inside her to beckons out a steady flow of desire. He sucks and licks up everything she produces, the sounds positively lewd in contrast to the soft notes of the piano and trombones that have joined the saxophone emanating from the horn of the phonograph. Her orgasm coils tighter with the passing of every bar.

"God, Selina," Bruce whispers, almost violent in the way he jerks down his slacks and underwear with one hand, freeing his own straining flesh.

"Don't stop," she pleads. He doesn't, closing his hot mouth over her again, this time flicking her with his tongue in a way that sends lightning bolts arcing through her. She grasps at her tits, pinching at her own nipples. Combined with the unrelenting press of his fingers inside her walls, her orgasm swells, swells, swells...

Oh, _fuck._

She thrashes, arches, her orgasm crashing over her at full gallop. Every conscious thought sweeps aside in the tide, every sensation gets lost in a jumble. His fingers leave her only when her back loosens, and she relaxes back into the soft mattress.

By the time her sight finds its way back to her eyes, he's framing her with his corded arms, looking over her with a self-satisfied smirk. She could kill him if she didn't already feel like dying peacefully in her sleep.

"Shut up,” she says.

"Didn't even say anything."

"You didn't have to. What else do you want? A cookie?"

He puts his lips to her ear. "I want to fuck you. Can I have that?"

She loves the sound of that. She’s suddenly dying to know just how filthy his mouth can get. "Well, since you asked..."

He smothers her with another kiss, her blissed-out body to limp to resist him as he hikes her thighs up and over his, settling his cock between them. He must have shucked the rest of his clothes while waiting for her to come back down to earth. She reaches for him, unable to resist running her fingers over the blazing soft, taut flesh she finds there.

He groans, pulling off her lips. "This still okay? I forgot to grab condoms from upstairs, but-,"

She stops him with a finger to his lip. "Twenty-first century, remember?"

He nods. He breathes her name when she shifts to align his cockhead with her entrance. Her breath catches when he suddenly leans forward, angling her hips higher. In one smooth motion, he sinks himself in to the root.

He pauses for a moment, and she's glad for some space for adjustment. She presses her lips to his shoulder, nails raking across his back. Her flesh twinges around him with the aftershocks of her last orgasm when he finally moves. Then, instead of finding a normal rhythm, the bastard starts to draw circles with his hips.

"What are you-," she asks, but the question dies when he picks up a leg, places it over his shoulder, and he sinks back in. His thrust curves in, then curves back out. Around and around. Unhurried, lazy swirls that pluck every one of her strings. It's so good. She can barely find her voice to tell him. She wants to cry with the way he fucks her like this.

She wants to cry. Like with everything, he's so nauseatingly tender she doesn't know what else to do. This is the same man who managed to give her a black eye up on the rooftop of City Hall.

It has to stop. "Fuck me," she whispers.

"What?"

Adding strength to her voice, "Fuck me like you mean it, Bruce, before I lose it."

He chuckles, the sound low in his chest, before dropping her leg to lean in and kiss her. He readjusts the angle and gives her one hard thrust, the power of which knocks the breath from her. It’s perfect. When he thrusts like that again, it's exactly what she had in mind.

"Like that," she tells him.

He drives into her again, then again. He picks up to a feral pace, fucking her with what would be a terrifying ferocity if not for the expression of tenderness he casts down over her, and she loves it. Loves that it's she who could ever see him this way.

Suddenly, he starts to slow down. No. _No._ She wants to scream when he returns to his lazy, circular rhythm, rolling his thick cock roll over every raw nerve inside her. The man has a death wish, of course. But she can’t voice her displeasure. She can’t stop the moans bubbling out from her lips.

"Touch yourself."

_Huh?_ She's not sure if she uttered it.

"Touch yourself, Selina.”

Her hand snakes between them, and she rolls her clit between her fingers. As she watches him struggle to hold back, she sees the man who makes her actually feel something. Feel like her life isn't always just some shamble through the dark. That she's alive.

Suddenly, he grabs her and impales her with one brutal thrust.

“I'm not gonna-," he grunts, screwing his eyes shut. He abandons the corkscrews and returns to fucking her, hard and fast.

"Bruce, fuck!"

Her orgasm ambushes her. His savage pounding draws out wave after wave, tearing her apart on each crest, and reforming her on each trough.

He fucks her through it until he simply cannot. His guttural gasp signals the end, when a scalding heat blooms within her as he shudders and jerks above her. Emptied, he slumps over, burying his forehead into the mattress next to her. When she reforms for the last time, she wraps her arms around his broad shoulders.

Their chests rise and fall together as they each catch their breaths. “I’ve decided not to kill you,” she mumbles into his collarbone.

He snorts, pulling out of her to roll over. “Thanks for letting me plead my case. Give me a sec. I think there are some clean rags in the armory.”

Her hand shoots out to stop him before he can sit up. He looks over to her.

“You know I can’t promise you I’ll never leave,” she tells him. It rushes out of her before she can think.

“I know.”

He actually _smiles_ when he says it. She almost forgets what else she wanted to say. She grabs onto his wrist, tight. “Even after Alfred? After what I said upstairs? You’re not...mad?”

“It’s okay.”

She reels. She doesn’t know what to do with that. Maybe it’s just the post-coital bliss infecting him, and confusing her. All she can think of is to lean over and kiss him, so she does. With it, she declares the one thing she knows for certain: “I promise you, I’ll never stay gone for long.”

He smiles up at her. “As long as I can justify keeping a bed down here.”

She swats him, and makes him go clean up. As she admires the perfect view of his backside while on his retreat to the armory, she knows there’s no escaping these depths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love feedback. All the feedbacks.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I condone safe sex, and I'm fully aware this fic is not a great example. In case there was any question.
> 
> Thank you for reading. I always love feedback.


End file.
